The town was a mistake, Olm reckoned. It looked like three civil engineers (or whatever passes for "civil" on New Nowhere), sitting at a Saloon one night, ordered far too many rosaritas, and made a bet—who could build the most pointless road to nowhere? When built, all three roads, somehow, ended at this town.

Aside from a cramped row of run-down quick-fab houses (only a few of which still had their corrugated tin roofs), the crumbling foundations of some abandoned church, and a solar pylon covered in yellow dust, the center of the town—and the sole-surviving building—was a Saloon called The Last Drink. Its fab-wood walls were so dusted over and eaten by wood rot that they looked as much a part of the landscape as any of the boulders or scraggly bushes or bony trees rooted in the sand. A hand-painted addendum to the sign claimed it was “the #1 saloon for a 1000K around.”

Judging by the name, it was the only saloon for a thousand K around. But a drink was a drink.

Through the swinging door, the den of the Saloon was rich with the scents of yeasty beer, the acrid spice of keriq smoke, and the muttering grunts of non-conversation from the Saloon’s sparse patronage. The lights were dim and yellow, though Olm doubted the ambiance was an intentional, and the space was filled with wooden tables heavy enough to withstand even the hardiest night’s drunken stumbling. While the Saloon’s patrons, as dusty and scraggly as the rest of the town, barely looked up, the feather-covered bartender perked up from his polishing.

When he saw Olm, his eyes lingered in that way that Olm was all too familiar with—worried the hrutskuld was here to spill blood. But he seemed to judge something in Olm, and the look faded.

“Welcome, folks. This your first time in Scipio’s Crossing?”

“Who’s Scipio?” Caly asked, settling herself on one of the stools at the bar.

“You’re looking at him. Town was just called ‘the Crossing’ before I settled in. I’m the sole proprietor of this here saloon, and the self-appointed Mayor, not to mention the town’s only mechanic, of course.”

“Of course,” Caly said flatly.

Scipio shrugged, not in the least offended. He was a rakaren, a rail-thin xeno, with multi-joined arms that bent strangely in that tailored suit. His angular head was covered in sleek feathers, except for that downy mustache over his beak. When he spoke, his hooked beak split open into four separate bills, which clacked and scraped the words together.

“What can I get for you all?”

“A rosarita would be nice,” Olm said, trying not to get his hopes up.

“Apologies, friend,” Scipio said, “Ain’t had a bottle of wine since I left Yonder. All I’ve got is what’s on tap.”

Olm grunted his acceptance. While Scipio poured, his eyes traveled up and down Olm’s body. Olm waited for the question he knew would come, “Hrutskuld, eh? Don’t get many of them out here.”

But Scipio was a different sort of bartender, or maybe just a smarter one. Instead, as he offered Olm the mug of dirt-awful beer, the xeno asked, “That’ll be one synar.” And while Olm dug in his pockets for a coin, an act that seemed to require him to dig deeper and deeper these days, the barman asked, “Any news from Yonder?”

“No,” Caly said.

“Hmph,” He grumbled, “Was just trying to make conversation. Is she always this prickly?”

“We’re looking for someone,” Caly said, ignoring the comment. “A human.”

“A what?” Scipio leaned over the bar as if he’d misheard.

“A human. Couranoid. No horns. Mostly hairless, except for on his head. Last seen wearing a fur-lined vest and a red-and-white poncho.”

Scipio frowned, his beak bills clicking together pensively. Then he said, “Sorry, all you inner Synods all look the same to me.”

“Fine,” Caly said, “Then tell us about Yole.”

Scipio’s bills stopped clacking. He shifted slightly, as if to shield his voice from the rest of the saloon, not that any of them were listening, so deep in their cups were they.

“Listen,” Scipio said, “Whatever trouble you’re bringing, I don’t want it. This town has given me enough as is.”

“The lady’s not offering trouble,” Olm leaned in and rumbled. “She’s just asking.”

“Asking for Yole is asking for trouble. You’re not answering her call, are you?”

“What call?” Caly and Olm asked at the same time. They exchanged glances.

“Word is Yole’s hiring. Paying an insane pack of synar, they say. I’m warning you, though, that money she’s promised—that’s a lie. The Mad Queen is mad after all, and we’ve not heard from a single one of Yole’s people for two years solid year now. And I know she’s not keeping a saloon up by her palace.” The bartender scraped his beak over that last word with more than a little distaste. Then, Scipio frowned, and his fluffy mustache drooped slightly, “Now that I think about it, Blacktree—town just north of here—haven’t heard much from them either. Wonder if that’s why half the traffic from Yonder’s all dried up. Well, at least Old Ocotiyo still sends me customers.”

Olm looked up at the ceiling. Caly coughed.

“What?”

“Ah,” Olm scratched the back of his head. This was Caly’s arena, and he was glad when she took up the gauntlet.

“We’ve got news on Ocotiyo,” Caly said. “And we’d be happy to trade for info.”

“I just told you everything I know about Yole,” Scipio said.

“Not Yole. Not exactly. We’re looking for someone who’s looking for her.”

Scipio clicked his beak bills together, “That’s too bad, then. If your friend is looking for Yole, there’re only two possibilities: your friend is dead, or your friend is trying to get you both killed. Take my recommendation, and head back the way you came. Whatever you’re chasing, it ain’t worth it.”

“What if it was worth a whole lot to us?” Caly countered.

“Might be it is,” Scipio shrugged humbly. “Might be you’re searching for the lost crown of the Dys itself, but if you’re asking me, I don’t think anything’s worth going to Yole’s place.”

“Why’s that?”

Scipio glanced around his saloon. One of his bussers, a slender xeno with the same beak and different-colored feathers was ferrying drinks and a few steaming cuts of meat out from the kitchen. Her dress swished in the way that Olm supposed some people found pleasant, but most of the customers didn’t notice. They were staring down into their drinks or staring up at the screens on the walls playing old replays from the Synod’s more famous arenas.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Scipio, pretending to polish his cups, leaned over the bar and spoke in a low, serious voice. “Look. Before I came out here, this place was little more than a cluster of huts and a watering hole. My family thought I was touched in the head, but I did the calculations. This little crossing sits right in the middle of three big Spirine cities. You got Ocotiyo to the west, Yonder to the east, and the Mad Queen’s place way up north. Now, I’ll admit her bandits never were worth more than a few coppers, but all the folk who came down from Blacktree been good to me. There’s decent soil up there. Decent crops, half the year, and plenty of grazing in the other half. Damned good milkshakes, too. Fact is, Blacktree used to be my happiest customers. Until, well, I guess it was a month back. I don’t know how to explain it. They just got quieter. Drank a little less. Showed up in smaller numbers. Sometimes, they acted strange. Like they forgot how to use money, or forgot why they came in here at all. Had one come in who sat down at that table,” he nodded to the corner, “And sat there rocking in her chair, hands over her ears. I gave her a drink, you know, on the house. But she just looked at me, her eyes wide as moons. Just said, ‘I can still hear it.’”

Scipio’s rag squeaked over the cup that he was gripping too hard. “I was glad when she left. But I haven’t seen none of them since.”

“Has anyone gone to check on them?”

Scipio nodded, gravely.

“And?” Olm asked.

“Couples traders. But like I said, nobody’s come back from that way in a while. Lucky I’ve still got people coming from Ocotiyo, otherwise I don’t know how I’d keep this town afloat.”

“Yeah, about that—”

Outside, engines roared. They rolled past the saloon, making a window-rattling whine before they cut out. Loud, boisterous voices chopped through the sullen atmosphere of the saloon, drowning out the quiet conversation and the wordless blaring of the screens. Olm felt the boot steps before he heard them, heavy enough to make the boards groan and the walls shake.

A kell, an ogre of a xeno with angry, red skin and a meaty face, slammed the swinging door aside so hard, one of the slats fell off—which elicited an exhausted sigh from Scipio. The ogre grunted with every breath, which Olm thought was unnecessary, and when he clomped into the shadowy den of The Last Drink a host of tag-along thugs chattered and guffawed in his wake.

“Shit,” Scipio said. “‘Scuse me.” His busser was already dragging an oversized chair out of some back closet, struggling against its weight.

The ogre towered over the table in the center of the room, which was already occupied by three half-drunk xenos. He chuffed. The xenos rushed to clear out of his way, ignoring the jeers and laughs from the ogre’s posse. Then, the ogre elbowed one of his own cronies in the face, and the posse laughed again (including, nervously, the one with the bloodied nose).

Scipio tried to handle them, but the thugs were there to cause a problem. They called for drinks, food, smokes, and for a number of illicit goods that Olm doubted had ever made it out to New Nowhere. The busser, at least, seemed expert enough at dodging their remarks, and while their wandering hands reached but never touched her dress, Olm cringed at the sight.

Then, he saw Caly. Frozen. Her fans running overtime. Her visor fogged up with anger, fixated on the ogre and his cronies.

Yup. Trouble.

Caly stood up, and Olm was about to hook her by the elbow and guide her away from the bar before she had a chance to practice her infamous diplomatic skill, when something stopped her dead: a small chime from inside her helmet. A message. Olm didn’t question it. He took the chance, and lead her over to the darkest corner of the saloon. They sat under a stuffed bull’s head, those huge horns casting a shadow on their table.

Caly was still reading the message.

Olm took a sip from his mug and winced at the taste. He looked at her, at his own reflection in the black visor of her helmet, and said, “Who is it?”

“From home. From him.”

Caspian, Olm thought. A spike went through his blood. “I thought you were done with him.”

“I am,” she said, in a voice that convinced him not at all. Caly came from a ruthless House on a ruthless world. Though she would never admit it, exile was the only reason she was still alive. The fact that she still dreamed of going back was enough to make Olm’s stomachs churn.

“What lies is he telling you this time?”

She shook her head, but her tone didn’t match the movement. “This one felt different. I think he wrote it himself.”

“You didn’t answer him, did you?” Olm asked, and took a drag from his beer, hoping that he might dull the taste by getting it over with. Somehow, it only tasted worse.

“Something’s changing,” Caly said, dodging the question. “He said the Houses are … cooperating.”

“He’s just trying to pull you back in, so he can use you.”

Caly didn’t say anything. Olm was staring at his own reflection in her visor.

“You’re not thinking about going home, are you?”

“How can I? I’m broke.”

Olm frowned at her. Was trying to figure out how to tell her, in so many words, that if she ever wanted to live again, she had to stop drinking the same old poison, but a sudden surge from the gang of thugs up at the bar drowned out his thoughts. One of the cronies threw a cup and shouted, “My own piss tastes better than this dirt water!” spraying the barman and the shelves behind him with the aforementioned liquid.

“You’re not getting anything stiffer than that,” Scipio answered firmly. He wiped the beer off his face, calm as you please, but the feathers on his back raised in angry ridges. “Don’t like it? There’s a well out back.”

“We came here to drink, not get watered like farmer’s beasts!”

“Where’s the real booze?” another crony sniveled, “Where’s the good stuff?”

The big ogre leaned back in his chair, grinning like a boorish father amused by his hellraiser children. The barman and the busser, to their credit, tried to appease the thugs, but that didn’t work on these types. It only fed their arrogance.

Olm glanced at Caly. She was rigid as a statue, pretending to not want any part of this. But Olm knew her better. She sits still any longer, she’s going to explode. Olm reached into his pockets and pulled out two synars. He clicked them on the table, and said, “That’s it. That’s the last I got.”

Caly didn’t move. Gave no indication she’d heard him.

Olm tried again. “Caly. We can’t pay for this world’s problems. We can’t even pay for our own.”

That got her. She looked up at him, defeated. “You’re right.”

“Ignore them.” No easy task, with the way they were laughing. “The barman said Yole’s up north, which means the human’s probably gone that way. Blacktree is our best bet, but I’m not sure how far that is. A few days' ride?”

“Gran gave me a couple sandwiches,” Caly said. Up at the bar, another glass shattered. Caly paused, only for a moment, and then pretended not to hear it, nor the pleading shouts from the barman. “Might be we can get some more foodstuffs from Blacktree. I’ve got some synars in my boot.”

“It’ll be thin,” Olm said.

“When is it not?”

“True. Still. No sense in sleeping out in the cold tonight. Maybe one of the other houses around here is abandoned enough, we can get ourselves the squatter’s discount. Then we’ll head out in the morning and—Caly? Ah, shit.”

Caly’s chair fell over backward. The couran had her rifle in her hands before Olm could finish blowing out his sigh.

One of the thugs was blocking the barman behind his own bar, while two other rowdy idiots were hooting and shoving the busser girl back and forth. The barman was shouting at them, and the whole time that huge ogre was just sitting there, laughing it up.

“Hands off!” Caly shouted, her voice amplified by her helmet, “Or I’ll blow them off!”

As one, the thugs turned. Anger, then when they saw what she was, the same, hungry grin spread across each of their faces. At least it gave the busser a chance to duck out of their hands and flee through the kitchen doors.

“I’m up,” Olm said, letting Caly know he wasn’t happy, but he was ready. His fingers clenched around the Hammer’s controls, and the battery warmed his back as it hummed to life. The regular patrons now eyed the exit.

And then, the door swung open, bringing with it a gust of cold, desert air.

Through some force Olm couldn’t see, the door stayed open, as if an invisible hand was holding it for someone. But nobody stepped through.

All eyes shifted from Caly to the empty darkness outside, and someone whispered a dumbfounded, “What?”

The cronies looked over to their ogre leader, who just snarled at the darkness.

A boot appeared in the dark. And another. A xeno stepped into the frame, a poncho thrown over his shoulders. It was as pale as white sand and threaded through with red. Strands of long, black hair spilled over it.

Olm’s eyes went wide. Some small part of him whispered, huh—up close, he’s kinda cute. For such a skinny xeno. But Olm put the thought away, given the situation.

The human’s gaze wandered over the dimly-lit saloon, smiling as if he was walking into a room full of his favorite people. His vest creaked and so did the floorboards—not groaning under his weight, only announcing it. The human nodded at the bartender, as if he hadn’t interrupted anything at all.

“Evening,” the human said in a voice that sent chills down Olm’s spine—not because of the threat, but because of the lack thereof. He’d seen what this xeno could do, and he needed to see it again. But he walked so … normal. No hint of that blinding swiftness Olm had seen back in the arena. The cut of his shoulders and his slender arms told nothing of the surprising strength that had laid Olm hard on his back in the arena.

Had it been a trick? Could this twig of a xeno really hide such a force?

The more he watched, the more Olm found himself doubting. Olm had snapped bones stronger than those, had twisted necks thicker than that one. Sure, there was a glib vitality about the way the human walked, but where was the substance? The raw strength?

Doesn’t he know that smiling like that is a good way to get shot?

The ogre and his cronies, it seemed, were thinking the same thing.